Definitely Not PST
No, not Pacific Standard Time although I do need to pay attention to the time zones with the deadlines coming up. Bastard Offices. Bastards. You know who you are, that's all I can say. PST = Primal Scream Therapy.

Okay, so to put this post into context, much of these mixed up feelings are to do with the sudden fall of something (I've not discovered what yet) last night from a shelf which landed with a thump that woke me up at 2:30, and then I couldn't fall asleep again until 4:30 by which point I was pissed off with the state of the world, and generally angry with myself for not having more foresight to batten down the fucking hatches and just dive deep into the calm waters of the fucking Mariana Trench to look at fucking hot water spring algae and blind worms lolly-gagging in the dark. Oh, if only it were that easy to just lock everything down and just put your head in water and breathe out. If only.

So cold we became transparent
This morning was cold. Again, there was slushy brine in my eyes as the cold wind blew. My toes were cold and it felt like the end of the world. Mostly because there were few cars on the road, and when I was stopped at lights etc, it was cold enough that I felt nauseous.

Maybe I felt like vomiting for other reasons. Perhaps like Elizabeth, I'm pregnant - well, what of it, I could publish in Nature then

Circles - they come and go, but one thing they have in command. They come around again. Especially when the said circles are mythical circles (think "glass becomes air, air becomes glass") that are inked onto ankles, wrists and the back of the neck. Not just in black and white, but in glorious technicolour.

So much for the Font of Vulnerability
I could laugh or at least assume a rictus of mixed bitter humour, regret and perhaps chargrin. Then again, perhaps I should just forge ahead. After all, it's not like I've not been open, transparent and honest unlike some offices (Bastards, you know who you are, bloody, bloody, bloody bastards) which I could (but can't) mention - at least not publicly.  Having said that though, there's a reason why deep in my head, full transparency and honesty is a scary thing. I'm not sure that I'm all that ready to shine a bright light onto the cracks and crevices, the hidden nooks and crannies, and the inner folds of shuttered (perhaps shattered?) emotions which have grown like barnacles since the day I was born.

Speaking of which, I am 32! 32! not that age what some instructor, who spanked BK and then grabbed my hips, announced to the class at large. Bastard. Buh-loody bastard. Secrets, what secrets - they're all gone.

Childlike Honesty, not Childish Honesty
BUT back to honest thoughts. No, I can't quite do it right now. I shall perhaps write them down with my eyes close and send them to the future - but then again, why would I want to do this? It'd only come back in the future and remind me of stuff I probably don't want to be reminded of. Does that make sense? What doesn't make sense to me either - and for this you have to assume the mores and personal code of conduct of an Englishman during Victorian times - is what the hell I have to do with anything that goes on in world where I have no presence - I mean, WTF. Why does this, or anything for that matter,  have to impinge on me? WHY? After all - and this is where the Victorians come in - A man may have doubts, but he should have the grace to keep them to himself.

Grace - what is grace anyway? According to my Google Overlords, Grace is: (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

Ah. Now that makes sense. You're the teacher's pet in a way. And the state of Grace - assuming that it is bestowed willy-nilly randomly is only a reminder of how unjust, how unfair the world can be at times.

Miss. Mapp: "Sometimes, Miss Mapp grew positively weary of the world". Let's just replace that capital M with a Y, and there you have it.

Today - my immediate task is to cut 8 pages of text down to 4. The way my mind is thinking right now, this could result in a disastrously disorganized document, or it could be a work of inspiration.

Completing the circle
You know what it is? It feels like my life has shrunk and the walls of work and deadlines are closing in on me so that I can barely breathe because what I thought was a window to the outside world turned out to be a t.v. screen that has suddenly started broadcasting static and now I'm trapped, and lord knows I hate having t.v. screens around me. I was in some building recently and it was like being trapped in a scene from a bad, derivative version of Minority Report where screens where everywhere blasting unwanted information at you. And it was hell, which if you have a semi-classical education, you'd know is other people.

I feel like I should end this post with something positive, something that reaches out from the beginning to complete the circle but I'm really not in the mood. I want to sit and lolly gag like those blind worms by the hot springs down in the Marina trench and just flutter aimlessly around in the dark.

Oh damn. I just completed the circle(*). I just can't help myself, it seems.

Not, BK, the circle of sluts.